Chapter 0: [Prologue] My Neighbour Is A Farmer
The world is simple.
You either stand above others… or you are stepped on.
In the Demonhelms, we are taught this before we are even taught how to hold a blade.
Survival of the fittest.
If you are born into a great noble bloodline, your future is paved in gold and soaked in blood. Unless, of course, your siblings decide to pave it with yours.
If you are born to peasants, you learn early that hunger is more consistent than hope.
If you are born into a family of soldiers, your childhood is a rehearsal for your funeral.
And De'meir forbid you are born a demi human.
Then you learn that even suffering has rankings.
I was born Gil'heim. Eldest son of Marquis Morbius, who carried the honored and inconvenient title of Demon of War.
He noticed my talent early. Or perhaps he simply wished to see if I would survive it.
I was sent to the Academy of Calamities.
Nothing much happened there. I simply excelled while bleeding the right way.
I mastered strategy, politics, magic, warfare, and the delicate art of smiling while planning someone's execution.
When I graduated, I emerged as the top ranking Demon.
Naturally, I was selected as a candidate to become the next Demon King.
Soon, the years passed and I became a Demon Lord instead.
There are twelve of us. All brilliant. All accomplished with something and all equally unwilling to die first.
The previous King still lives. Quite stubbornly, I might add.
So our ascension remains… delayed.
Meanwhile, wars between races continue endlessly.
Humans in particular seem to believe that if they invade often enough, something different will happen.
Every day there are invasions.
Every day there are casualties.
Every day someone requests permission to massacre something.
It simply gets exhausting.
And yet…
None of that is my greatest concern.
"M'lord," my most trusted general spoke, kneeling with enough force to crack the marble floor. "Please reveal your worries. I, Demon General Balak, shall immediately annihilate the perpetrators."
Balak is a battle maniac.
He once declared war on a mountain because it "looked arrogant."
How could I possibly explain this to him?
The source of my distress…
Is a human.
A single human.
A human who has dared to send this letter.
Again.
Today.
For the one hundred and fifth time.
I unfolded it slowly.
Balak leaned forward, hopeful.
It read:
[Letter of Complaint]
[Whoever owns that castle of yours, control your armored lunatics. If they scream war cries at five in the morning one more time, I will personally walk over there and teach them what real suffering sounds like.
Also, your soldiers trampled my crops again.
Do you know how long ember wheat takes to grow.
I demand compensation.
And an apology.
Preferably written.]
Silence filled the throne room.
Balak's eyes twitched.
"…M'lord?" he asked carefully. "Shall I mobilize the legions?"
I folded the letter with the dignity of a ruler who commands armies and controls territories vast enough to swallow kingdoms.
"Balak," I said calmly. "Stand down."
"But the offender…"
"I will handle this personally."
"M'lord?"
I rose from my throne.
There are twelve Demon Lords.
Countless armies.
An endless war.
And my greatest enemy…
Lives next door.
And he is a farmer.